


Some Stranger's Hand

by cassandra_leeds (The_Circadian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Choking, Dubious Consent, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Rough Sex, Violence, Violent Sex, typical canon type warnings for fallen!cas in endverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/cassandra_leeds
Summary: Jealous and angry over future!Cas' seeming affection for past!Dean, future!Dean confronts future!Castiel.Missing scene from 5x04, occurring between the "What? I like past-you" interaction/scene where the action plan is discussed, and the scene where they leave to take on Lucifer.Originally posted on LJ long ago.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	Some Stranger's Hand

“What the hell was that about earlier?”

Dean is an iron presence in the doorway, and menacing. Castiel hears him push the hanging beads to one side and their sound is loud beside the quiet that quickly falls around the two of them. Castiel’s room is normally occupied with a recreational companion or two, but not tonight. Tonight he is alone, or was. It was just going to be him tonight with his thoughts - time alone to quiet them, tuck away the feelings they brought nearly to the surface, put them back in the dark and muted places they’d stayed for years.

Castiel had been going through his books absently, been looking for something but for the life of him can’t remember what because now Dean’s here and Castiel can feel Dean’s anger simmering underneath, ready to break through. Even from across the room, Cas can feel it - a pressure all around him, hot and terrifying, close. This ability to feel Dean in this way has never left him. It’s something that reminds him always of who he was once, _what_ he was, what he lost. And it hurts. No matter how he tries to cover it up along with all the other things he doesn’t want to feel anymore, it stays. Feeling Dean stays.

He can’t be really bothered to care to remember what he’d been looking for because the only thing he’s ever truly lost is right here, right now. He’s seen both sides in one day – a Dean whose actions are based on love and a Dean who bases all his tactics on rage.

It’s been months since Dean’s come this far into his rooms, instead preferring to yell to him from outside or sent someone to fetch him. Or said nothing and just waited for him to follow.

No. No, it’s been years.

Castiel places his hand down on the shelf, in an empty space amid trinkets he’s collected and gifts from lovers, but he does not turn, he does not shift.

“Care to elaborate?” Castiel says softly.

Dean is there, that angry energy thick and so close it sickens. And Castiel tenses, but only slightly.

“You like past me, huh?”

Castiel straightens his posture and smiles to himself bitterly. He’s glad the high wore off a few hours past, cause this would have been way too funny. At the same time he painfully wishes he had a drink. Years of disintegrating with drugs and sex, fucking more people than he cared to remember or often did, years of drinking and smoking and swallowing enough capsules that the pain subsided briefly or at least turned to something else. Years of nothing. And now? Now jealousy?

The Dean who had come in earlier that day, all hurried words and baffled concern, all care - a Dean that had once been his, he was the man to whom Cas had given himself completely. He’d given up everything for him, for them. He’s still giving even now there’s no return. No, it had never been easy before, but at least for a time he had felt like they had one another. When Dean held onto him like he could still disappear, like he could fly away even though they both knew Cas was grounded for good, when touching was new to him and brought security instead of the numbness it brought now from others, when it had been _that_ Dean it had been different – it had been sharp and keen and painfully true, sweet and all consuming. Now those memories are ghosts, are shadows of another man, a man who made love to Cas, not his war plans. And Castiel is mad even if he stays still. He’s furious. He wishes he still had the energy to fight back. He wishes he could turn around and shake Dean, strike him down and shout, _Of course I like him, I fell for him!_

But he doesn’t. Because that’s not who he is anymore either.

“Is there a problem, Dean?” Castiel finally turns to face him, and is struck by the angry hurt that meets his gaze. It’s the most emotion he’s seen from Dean since they found out about Sam in Detroit. There is a long moment where just that energy hovers between them, electrifying the air. “He’s _you._ Are you going to get mad at me for liking _you?”_

“No,” Dean growls, “I’m mad because you’re lying.” And when Castiel scowls in response, Dean grabs his jaw in one brutal hand. “You _want_ him.”

And Castiel wants to laugh, bitterly laugh at how ridiculous this is, how devastatingly and heartbreakingly hilarious because Dean’s right, he’s fucking right, but that grip holds his jaw in a vice.

“Tell me what it is,” Dean grits out as he presses in, pushes Cas roughly back against the bookshelf and himself against him. Dean’s breath hits Castiel’s face in hot waves, a twisted echo of what it was once, and Cas closes his eyes tight cause it’s too much, too much after not enough for so long. “Was I prettier a few years ago?”

“Dean–” Cas manages through his teeth.

“Was it better when I was younger, when my body was still scarless because of you?” It’s a whisper, but it stings when he shakes his head with a cruel smile and leans in even closer. “No, that’s not it, is it?”

Castiel sucks in his breath and suddenly feels more homesick than he has in months, more alien and fragile than he has in years.

“No, you liked me when I was beneath you,” Dean says and brings up his other hand to Cas’ throat, pressing down, “when I owed you something, when I was _scared_ of you.”

Cas can’t look, closes his eyes tight, but he feels the world tilting, feels the dull ache in his neck as Dean’s hand turns heavy and presses in harder still, covering Cas’ pulse, diminishing his ability to breathe, his heart rate steadily climbing in response to the fact that he knows he can’t stop Dean. When Castiel was strong in one way, Dean was always stronger in another. These days it’s in brute force and Castiel thinks to himself that if he doesn’t pass out first, he should thank Dean for the demonstration before he leaves. But Dean seems to take the small smile at this thought as a confession.

“You sick fucking bastard,” Dean hisses. “You still wanna throw me back into Hell, huh? Try, you weak,” and the choking hand constricts and pushes, “pathetic,” and colors are swirling behind Castiel’s eyes, Dean’s voice too close and yet strangely muted, “spineless excuse for a human being.”

Castiel’s body is fully protesting now – his brain starved and feeling like a wrung out sponge, his lungs burning, and he can nearly hear them shouting out frantically to his brain for air, _air, fucking air!_ but the most he allows himself is bringing his hands up to Dean’s wrists and holding tight. And even through this unfamiliar intoxication, he knows those wrists and it feels good somehow - like even half brain dead, his body remembers. And time is lost somewhere between hazy texture and sensation as Cas feels his consciousness slip into the dark, the world passing by somewhere far overhead. Gone and back in tingling, distant half awareness.

“Cas?”

Cas opens his eyes. It’s reflexive, he’s not really meaning to look when his eyes shoot open, not wanting to see, and he’s right not to want to because inches from him, if fuzzy and amid swirling dark colors, is a look he hasn’t seen in years, heavy lidded and dangerous. Dangerous because even though he came earlier, multiple times with a series of lovely women, one flavor after another, came even until it hurt at the last, his body flares now with more longing than he’s felt since the first time Dean leaned in and kissed him years ago in that motel room, when he had awkwardly leaned in while they were alone watching a movie and stilled Castiel’s questions about the details of the plot with his mouth. After that it had been all fumbling hands and heavy breath as clothes came half off, as Dean said things, “So long, for so long, fuck, Cas, you’re so beautiful,” and pivoted against him and Castiel came with a broken shout, bucking up, and trembling in gasping realization. Dean had kissed him and said they’d best clean up before Sam came back, had laughed about how Cas was as quick as a teenager. And then promised him the only remedy - more.

The memory is so vivid that Castiel thinks he might cave in on himself. Nothing should hurt that much and leave you alive.

“Cas, shit,” Dean’s voice is shaking and the pressure eases off his throat in a rush and Castiel feels his knees start to give as the world turns over and around. He gasps jagged breaths as hands come up to the sides of his face and grip tight and Dean’s body now presses against him hard and hot, keeping him up. “Cas, look at me.”

And Castiel can’t do much but cough and obey.

Dean shifts and Castiel can feel Dean hard in his jeans as he just barely rubs against him. Castiel whimpers. “Fuck, Cas, you know you’re mine. You know you can’t just…”

Castiel is still wheezing when Dean’s right hand comes down to cup him where he’s fully hard, and Dean groans.

“That me failed so many times. I’m not gonna watch you fuck around with that again. I’d rather you died than fall that low.”

And Castiel nods, not sure to what as Dean palms him and pants low against his ear and it feels awful and wonderful and not enough as Castiel pushes forward into his hand with a small lost sound.

“You’re still mine, Cas,” Dean whispers and the words shoot through Cas like a dose through the vein and he groans and thrusts, already so close, already edging towards the brink and Dean answers with a growl and a shudder, grabbing Cas by the shoulders and leading him over to the bed, a dizzy and faint mess.

Dean pushes him down onto the mattress and Cas sobs, though there is no fear in it, when Dean sinks down and pushes his legs apart and falls between them.

Castiel is still drunk from lack of air, high on every rushing hormone his body seems to have been holding back for an emergency - he’s intoxicated with it. It’s only after he feels Dean unbuttoning his pants with one hand below that he realizes he’s gripping onto Dean as hard as his weak fingers can. He’s holding onto his shirt and then moving up to his face, reaching to touch, to let his fingers kiss the places he used to even if he can’t. And he can’t. Because Dean won’t let him. He takes those hands by the wrists and holds them to Castiel’s chest with a firm shake and a push. “No,” Dean breathes. “We’re not playing that game anymore.”

 _You’re wrong_ , Cas wants to sneer, but has no voice left to speak it. They’re playing the same game they always have. They just switch roles as the game gets crueler.

Dean brings his other hand back up to pull Castiel’s head back by the hair, exposing the lean length of his neck, breathes deep against it, mouths almost gently, and then bites at tan skin rough with stubble as Castiel’s soft moans become cries and he thrusts up without reserve, arches back up against Dean in a humming groan, begging with his body, begging hard and wet in his pants for anything, anything, begging sweaty on this bed that still smells like women and incense and sage. But Dean’s scent is washing them all away as his body heats against him, battling away everything else with one thrust after another, one breath after another. Castiel feels even his own scent being drowned out by the heady smell from Dean’s heat, and wonders if it will consume him and burn him out, if anything will remain of him once Dean is finished, and he welcomes this new oblivion more than any other he’s ever tried for before.

“Do it, Dean,” Cas whispers and Dean lets out his breath above him, and Castiel hopes to god speaking wasn’t the wrong thing to do. “Do it.”

But Dean is pulling off his own shirt and unbuttoning his jeans, undressing quickly, eyes on Cas and it takes Castiel an unbelieving moment to realize he should be doing the same. So Castiel does, pulls the clothes away and removes his pants, eyes glued on Dean as he watches him strip, somehow graceful and, god, it’s all so painfully familiar. He undresses the same way he always has - pulling the shirt over his head and then down his arms, powerful fingers pushing at buttons and zippers and slipping free like the clothes were a trap to begin with - and Castiel feels a pained sound growing in his chest, ready to break, but smothers it down as Dean lowers himself back down, covering him.

Bare skin to skin, their skin, and it’s just as good as it ever was, the truest of highs. The first time Castiel had traced his fingers over Dean’s stomach years ago, felt the flex of muscles in response, he had pulled back in surprise. It wasn’t that he’d never seen Dean’s body react to touch or noticed the attractiveness of the man who had once been his charge - he’d remade Dean’s body, its mechanics and makeup weren’t exactly a secret. But there _was_ a secret there, because he never imagined that it could ache to touch someone, that it could feel so good to run his hands down and hold hardening flesh, that Dean’s mouth slackened with pleasure and breath shaking with encouraging words would be all it took make his own body surge forward and release in rapturous climax. Dean’s skin was still new then, young and fresh and uncalloused, reborn, Castiel’s own work, and it should have felt stranger to have it sliding softly over his, but it wasn’t.

Dean’s skin is rougher now, remarked with scars and thick from sun. His touches are rougher too, forceful, and it fucking hurts when he grabs Castiel’s hips with bruising hands and grinds over him, almost painful beyond pleasure, muttering, “Slut,” and Cas hazily hears him spit into his hand.

And Castiel would laugh if it didn’t hurt so much, if it didn’t ring true. Fuck.

Sharp heated pain shoots through him as Dean’s fingers force inside. “Fuck, fuck!” But Dean just keeps moving those fingers in, keeps adding knuckle after knuckle until Castiel feels a sob work out of his chest and a tear striping down his temple to his hairline. “Dean, please.” Dean rubs the pads of his fingers deep and Cas pivots when he find that spot in him that sends jolts of pleasure and pain all the way to his toes. “Fuck, please, please, Dean.” And Dean adds another finger as Cas cries out loudly, nearly screams.

Dean covers Cas’ mouth and nose with his hand. “You don’t say my name,” he grits out. “Why would you say my name?” And it’s hard to breathe again, Dean’s hand a massive blocking sweaty weight, but Cas can’t seem to care. All he can feel is Dean so close, so close, the waves of excruciating pleasure that shoot through him as Dean works his fingers over that spot again and again, stretching him and, fuck, Cas is already close, so close to coming, his whole body tensing for release, his cock untouched and aching, the world spinning. He wants it so bad as Dean’s voice purrs against his skin and flows through him like some sort of nasty medicine, “Not yet.” Castiel whimpers through Dean’s fingers, near tears with need and thrusting still. “Not yet.”

And then he’s empty and gasping in air as those hands release parts of him to possess others, taking position at his hips and shifting him as Dean crawls up onto the bed and sits back onto his knees, pulling Cas down the bed and hefting him up onto him. Cas’ legs fall around Dean awkwardly and he’s on his back, ass raised and blood pooling in his head, spread over and in front of Dean, limp as a rag doll, and Dean bends forward positioning himself and then without any warning, burning pain as Dean pushes in. Castiel bites his lip to stop from screaming, but can’t completely stop the sounds that are ripped out of him. And when Dean is full inside him, Dean trembles and closes his eyes.

"Oh, Cas…”

And Castiel weeps because it’s what he wants, it’s what he wants. Trembling hands, his hands, come up to reach for Dean but fall as Dean starts to pivot into him, looming over him, Dean filling him so completely Castiel feels like he may die and that thought knocks the air that was left in Castiel’s lungs out of him with a push of Dean’s hips like a punch. Dean high above, silhouetted and unreachable, one hand holding Cas by the hip to move him and the other pressing down on Castiel’s chest to keep him still. When Castiel just manages to grasp at his ribs and look up he finds Dean staring right back as he pivots into him again and again in rolling waves of motion, hitting places deep in Castiel no one else ever could, places that ache and sing and make him see stars. He’s pulling Castiel apart from the inside out with every thrust and, fuck, even without the ease of good lubrication this is better than anything Castiel has felt in years. He feels awake and alive and like he’s fighting for something for himself for the first time since the last time they kissed, in the first weeks after they had come to this place. Dean had been sharpening a knife, strong fingers shining with oil and the sound of metal circling over stone, and Cas had sat down next to him and waited. What seemed like hours later, while Dean wiped the blade clean, Castiel had placed his hand on Dean’s thigh and when Dean faltered in his work, Cas had leaned in and embraced him, pressed his dry lips to Dean’s, trying with all he had left to breathe life back into the man, trying to save them both. And for a moment Dean seemed to let him try, as if curious if salvation were possible also. But then the shift, and Dean was gone. He’d fought away, the knife flashing between them in fumbled combat, finally pushing Cas off as Dean disappeared into the night. Cas hadn’t felt the cut until he noticed the whole lower part of his sleeve clung to his arm doused red. He still has that scar on his forearm, the first scar that ever stayed.

And that was it. There were no words or exchanges again, no touches that signaled care. There was no room for Castiel in Dean’s life that way anymore. Detroit had seen to that.

“You want it?” Dean asks, stuttering and shaken, like it wasn’t meant originally to be a question, but Castiel nods and twists his arms around Dean’s. A shaking groan and Castiel watches Dean start to break, “Castiel, say it,” he grits, his hand moving down to Castiel’s cock and wrapping around him as he hits deep and desperate, his cock forcing one fabulous flurry of sensation after another through Cas. It’s good, it’s so good, and he groans, he keens, as Dean’s hand pumps over him, god, so close, strokes away from spilling all over himself, coming because of Dean, the only real high that was ever worth chasing. And he doesn’t have a clue what Dean wants him to say. He could say a million things right now and doesn’t know if Dean would hear any of them for what they mean, but that saying nothing might just mean Dean stopping right there and leaving. And, fuck, he’s _so close_.

“Cas, _say it_.”

And Cas can see Dean is close too, has never been able to forget the way Dean looked like he was about to cry when he was right there, right about to tip over the edge, the way his head would quirk to the side and his eyes would glaze even as they seemed to be holding Castiel down with that unending half lidded stare, the way he would flinch trying to hold it back, tense muscles and sweat and breath. And Castiel opens his mouth and speaks.

“You– it’s you, it’s always… always. Ah, Dean, I want it, please.”

Dean shudders, his grip around him faltering momentarily, and Castiel can’t help but wonder if he did wrong or right, if it’s even close to what Dean wanted or expected, then finds the words leaving his mouth without thought:

“Dean, I’m yours.”

The sound Dean makes next is tortured. And Cas can’t take it anymore, climax so close he can taste it, god, it hurts, and he pushes up into Dean’s hand for more, more, god, almost.

“Please, Dean, make me… Dean, please.”

There is the briefest break in Dean’s expression, where Castiel can see something like a man he knew once, as his hand starts working at Cas in earnest. And just like that, the beginning rush of orgasm is holding him tight, ready to throw him out into space, and when Dean’s breath ghosts over his temple, “ _Cas_ ” he’s gone, he’s coming thick and hot over Dean’s fingers and coating his stomach and chest as Dean’s rhythm turns desperate and fast, as Dean leans forward and shifts until he’s pushing Cas up the bed with his thrusts, burying himself into him, jolts of razor sharp aftershocks making Cas choke as Dean hits deep again and again. Dean pants and as Castiel reaches up, this time Dean just barely leaning in, and Cas takes the chance and places his hands to Dean’s face pulling him down, sucking the crescendo of Dean’s moans in with the kiss as Dean tangles a hand shining with come into Cas’ hair and thrusts once, twice, and then tenses, breath quick and frantic against Castiel’s neck, the slowing thrust of him turning slick.

The room is ugly to him when Castiel opens his eyes. What he would give for a motel room, the glow of a television bathing them in blue, the feeling of mild nervousness knowing Sam could be back soon with dinner or research or beer. What Cas would give for a few innocent stolen moments. Even now, even with Dean as he is now. Because it’s still Dean and he still loves him. He always has, for better and often for worse. He loves this man.

Dean pulls out and Cas grits his teeth. Pain unembellished by arousal starts to register again as Castiel comes down, sticky and spent, limp and sore, and feeling suddenly sickeningly empty. “Is that it?” He pushes the words out quieter than he means to as he hears the shift of Dean’s clothes as he slips back into them.

Either Dean does not hear or doesn’t care to answer because he finishes pulling on his boots and is walking to the door. He stops by the doorframe though, as if the hanging beads there are an unfamiliar obstacle, and he falters and rests his hand against the door mantle for a moment before passing through and leaving Castiel alone.

Castiel watches the empty space in the doorway for longer than he knows and then turns his head lower to breathe in deep against the bedspread and wonders how long Dean’s smell will linger there. All of him aches, wants to wring itself out in a sob that would make even the Devil pity him. But instead he inhales deep again and holds the last of Dean’s scent in, imagining it grafting itself into his lungs, sinking into his bones. This was the last time. Castiel knows this. But this life as of late has been filled with last times. If it’s their last time, so be it. At least they have that. And Castiel centers on this and does not cry, he sleeps.


End file.
